The next morning came a note from van Tuiver. He was sure that Miss Castleman must have reconsidered her cruel decision, and he begged her to grant him one brief interview. Might he take her riding in his car that morning? The bearer would wait for an answer. Sylvia replied that her decision was unchanged and unchangeable—she was sorry to hurt his feelings, but she must ask him to give up all thought of her.
A couple of hours later came van Tuiver himself, and sent up his card and with a line scribbled on it, “What have I done to anger you?” She wrote back, “I am not angry, but I cannot see you.” After which an hour more elapsed and there came a telephone-call from “Tubby” Bates, who begged the honor of a few minutes talk.
“I ought to refuse to speak to you again,” said Sylvia. But in the end she gave way and told him he might call.
He had come as an emissary, of course. The young millionaire was in a dreadful state, he explained, being convinced that he had committed some unmentionable offence.
“I don’t care to talk about the matter,” said Sylvia.
“But,” persisted Bates, “he declares that I got him into the predicament, and now I’m honor-bound to get him out.”
So she had to set to work to explain her point of view. Mr. Bates, who himself owed no particular allegiance to Royalty, should be able to understand; he must realize that her annoyance was not personal, but was, so to speak, an affair of State. This had been her first experience at Court, she said; and the atmosphere had proven bad for her—had made her pale, and would soon turn her into a faded old woman.
Evidently “Tubby” had heard that part of the story also; first he grinned, and then in his rôle of diplomat set to work to smooth away her objections. “You surely don’t mind a little thing like that,” he pleaded. “Haven’t you any jealous ladies down South?”
“If we are going to discuss this question, Mr. Bates, I must speak frankly. Our hostesses are polite to their guests.”
The other began suddenly to laugh. “Even when the guests steal?”